


from the ashes

by openmouthwideeye



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 05:03:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11821779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: It is for his people that Dickon Tarly bends the knee. But how is the dragon queen to ensure his loyalty? Perhaps a wider alliance is in order . . .





	from the ashes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imagineagreatadventure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imagineagreatadventure/gifts), [usefulspinster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/usefulspinster/gifts), [Isola_Caramella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isola_Caramella/gifts).



> All aboard the S.S. Brickon! I needed something to work through my ~~Tom Hopper feels~~ JB frustrations, and this little crack ship has grown oddly dear to me over the past few days. I swear this fic was supposed to be frivolous. 
> 
> Many thanks to my fellow shippers for hoisting the sails and cracking open the rum!

“And how are we to ensure our new subjects’ loyalty?” muses the little queen, looking down on her defeated enemies as if she moves pieces around a board instead of dictating the fates of men.

As if the screams of his dying father do not echo in Dickon’s ears, berating him for his weakness.

“They fought my armies.” Her voice hardens. _"My dragons."_  And then it is is smooth again, almost wry. “Do you believe in their honor to fight for us, my lord?”

“A marriage pact is always good for morale,” says the dwarf, and he sounds so relieved that Dickon wonders why he follows her. “Perhaps with a few promises, the King in the North can solve our problems to the south.”

Dickon looks at the men trembling in the dirt, afraid to rise from bended knee. No scent of burning flesh lingers to gag them—the fire burned too hot for that—but they are quiet all the same.

Heedless of the tears that cut tracks across his soot-stained face, Dickon squares his shoulders. “I will do what I must.”

 

* * *

 

“Wed?” Brienne gapes, looking down at the woman to whom she’d sworn her service. “Lady Sansa, you cannot make me—”

“I cannot,” the girl broke in. “Nor would I if I could. The choice is yours.”

Choice. Between drawing Oathkeeper and fighting to the bitter end, or sacrificing herself for the good of all. The North cannot hope to defeat the White Walkers alone.

Brienne’s chin jerks up, jaw tight as she watches three monsters from legend curl around the clouds. No time for emissaries.

“A dragon for a sworn sword; an army for a lord.” Lady Sansa’s voice is quiet and sad, and bears no hint of yielding. “It’s easy to offer your sword, isn’t it, Brienne?”

 

* * *

 

It feels strange to peer down at the godswood, watching kings and queens gather for her wedding. Not for her—she is of little enough importance. For the realm.

Lady Sansa directs the servants, though there seems little to do now that she’s finished sewing the maiden cloak. King Jon stalks around the godswood, moody and restless, but when he glances up at Brienne’s tower window, his smile is faint and reassuring.

Peace. Alliance. Dragons.

The king settles beside the dragon queen.

 _Burn them all._ Jaime’s voice echoes in her mind as it did in the cavernous stone bathhouse of Harrenhal. Brienne shivers. By all accounts that light and lovely queen had done what her father could not.

 _We are none of us our fathers,_ Brienne tells herself, as her eyes fall on her intended. Tall and handsome with broad shoulders and a boyish look, he would be more than she could have hoped for, had she not long since abandoned such girlish fancies.

“You will have heard of the attack by now,” says a voice by the door.

Brienne jerks around to find Lord Tyrion entering her chambers. Her heart beats rapidly, but her face remains as impassive as her curt nod.

“Your intended fought bravely,” he said, walking closer, “and distinguished himself on the fields of both battle and defeat.”

She stares down at the godswood, watching Dickon adjust his house cloak, red and green with a streak of charred black across the archer’s face. Repurposed, no doubt, from a banner that escaped Drogon’s rage.

“He refused to bend the knee,” Tyrion went on. “Not for fear of death or dragons. The only thing to sway him was love of his people. He would not leave them undefended.”

_Burn them all._

“I am sorry for your brother,” she tells him, and the pain of that raven sweeps into her heart and sinks its claws into her tender flesh. _Dark wings, dark words._

Lord Tyrion looks surprised. “Have you not heard? Jaime survived the battle.”

The raven takes wing and her heart soars, aching and pulsing in the open air. “He’s alive?” she rasps.

“He will not survive the war.” Drifting to the bed, he traces Oathkeeper’s hilt, a finger circling the ruby that burns bright against the dark furs. “He has everything he’s ever wanted, and he will burn for it.”

Brienne clenches her jaw to stop its quavering. Lord Tyrion sees, but politeness stays his tongue.

He smiles at her sadly. “My brother always was a fool.”

 

* * *

 

Dickon Tarly remembers the Maid of Tarth. He remembers the laughter of his father’s soldiers as she mooned after the king. He remembers the crunch of armor when she tackled Ser Loras and rose tall and victorious, while those same soldiers, and Dickon too, stood bloodied and sore beside the tourney grounds. She is softer, somehow, than she was in King Renly’s camp, when all the world was summer and men played at wooing and at war.

Or perhaps she is only sadder.

“One flesh, one heart, one soul,” he says, for there is no septon, and neither the northern king nor the invading queen knows the words. He looks to his bride’s hip, at the blade whose twin he’d admired on the battlefield. “One sword,” he adds on a whim, then fumbles as her blue eyes pierce him. “Now and forever,” he finishes quickly, looking to the heart tree that weighs their union with dull, red eyes.

She already wears his colors. All that’s left is to kiss her, sealing an alliance that feels as shaky as her lips on his, and his on hers.

 

* * *

 

 _My maiden’s blood was a small price to pay,_ Brienne tells herself, watching great wings unfurl as King Jon takes to the skies. She may bleed more deeply and more painfully yet, but the world would not succumb to its wounds.

Her husband stands beside her, solid and resolved, and far kinder than she could have hoped. She flushes, overtaken by the memory of fumbling in the candlelight, and his halting, earnest apologies when it was done. _“I can do better. If you will consent to let me try?”_

He fumbles for his sword now, but his stance is steady and his eyes do not falter as the dead march ever closer. Rhaegal unleashes his fury, and a legion of undead become no more than walking biers. Brienne draws Oathkeeper and takes a steadying breath.

“I am glad to have you with me,” says Dickon unexpectedly. When he looks at her, sincerity softens his rueful smile. “My lone remaining ally.”

“One sword,” she says, and the words whisper across her heart in a way she did not intend. Her sword is not her husband’s, but she is glad to fight beside him all the same.

A small price indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Let your Brickon flag fly in the comments!


End file.
